


wouldn't it be nice

by ShatterinSeconds



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Angst, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Cuban Lance (Voltron), Fluff, Gay Keith (Voltron), Korean Keith (Voltron), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 07:31:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12883065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShatterinSeconds/pseuds/ShatterinSeconds
Summary: 1966. Summer. War. One road trip. Two boys in love.(or more simply, a 1960s Klance AU)





	wouldn't it be nice

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the Beach Boys’ song Wouldn’t It Be Nice
> 
> Probably horribly inaccurate, but I tried my best with the research. Hope you enjoy it though; I was really excited to write this one shot. 
> 
> Warning: there is an implied homophobic slur during the diner scene but it is not actually written/said.

It’s 1966 and they meet on the boardwalk. The evening is quiet, though accompanied by the bustle of people moving around as if nothing else matters, because in reality it doesn’t. Everyone’s skin prickles from the onslaught of the Vietnam War and the thought of loved ones dying overseas. Most bard the notion from their minds though. Only those effected show signs of grief with their tear streaked faces and dark, sunken rings under their eyes.

Keith’s hands haven’t stopped shaking. Shiro already lost his arm in that war, and likely most of his sanity, but Keith hasn’t been able to visit him yet. He’s back home in the states though, and that’s all that matters in the end. At least, that is what Keith’s foster mom tries to tell him whenever he asks to visit Shiro in the military hospital three thousand miles away from where they live.

They don’t have enough money, apparently, to make the long trip. Keith knows his foster parents just don’t care. It’s only Keith’s friend after all, nobody important to them.  

So it’s 1966 when Keith meets the boy with dark skin and blue eyes and freckled cheeks. It’s clear he’s not from America, and Keith already feels a bit of kinship with the boy. Being born in Korea has never helped Keith create strong and lasting bonds with anyone, especially now. He’s an outsider in the country he grew up in, the only home he has known for eighteen years.

This boy is definitely no stranger to another world, simply by the way his lips move with a unique accent and the way his eyes brighten with hope of something Keith can’t begin to comprehend. They’re both outcasts in this world, but for vastly different reasons.

It also doesn’t help that Keith is strictly into men but can’t do a fucking thing about it. He has known that fact about himself since he was fifteen, catching himself crushing on a senior in his high school. It had been a fleeting schoolboy crush of course, but Keith’s breath still hitched whenever he saw that smile or those dimples appear against flawless skin. No girl had ever looked as beautiful as he did. These thoughts and revelations were kept internally, knowing nothing could ever come of it.

The most difficult part of all this became the art of constantly dodging the question of when ‘he’s getting a girlfriend’ from his foster father and his foster mother teaching him how to properly take care of any girl he does end up dating--what flowers to get and to always pay for any meals. He doubts those same techniques will work on every man.

He may be subtle about his attraction to the same sex, but it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out that something is different about the way he acts.

Either way, part of Keith wants to scream whenever he spies their prying, questioning eyes.

“Helen, uh.. this is Katie,” he introduced to his foster mom once--truthfully, now she likes to be called Pidge, but that is only a special privilege she gives to her close friends. Keith is glad to be one of those. They are more alike than he ever thought possible.  

“Oh! You finally found a girlfriend, Keith. I’m glad to _finally_ meet her.” She untied her apron, placing it on the counter, short brown hair bouncing along with her excitement. Dinner cooked on the stove behind her.

“She’s _just_ a friend,” he forcefully elaborated, wincing as he ran a frustrated hand through his thick hair. A quick apology to Pidge had faded on his tongue, too embarrassed to speak further because of Helen’s mistake. _Can’t I just have one friend?_ he would often think to himself in the darkness of his bedroom, staring up at the blank ceiling and listening to the snores of his roommate--another child that would be adopted in a few months time.

No one had ever wanted--nor ever will want--to adopt Keith.

The bitter thought rested sharply on his tongue.

“Alright,” Helen subtly--but not really--winked. “I’ll bring a snack up for you two later. Nice to meet you, Katie!”

Pidge sent a curt nod and a mumbled “you too” in Helen’s direction, knuckles white as she gripped the bindings of her textbooks, clearly feeling as uncomfortable as Keith had been. During this point in time, they hadn’t known each other for very long so Keith couldn’t blame her.  

As they climbed the stairs to Keith’s room, Pidge harshly glared at the back of his head. Gnawing at her lips, she mulled over something in her head as her brows crease. She came to a decision and soon she spoke, the stairs creaking under her feet.

“I like girls, so don’t get any funny ideas about us dating,” Pidge mumbled quietly so he couldn’t have heard her as they came to a stop at the top.

For a second, Keith had believed that he had misheard her, shocked by her confession and level of trust she already has for him. He immediately offers her a comforting smile. “And I like boys so you’re safe here.”

Pidge arched her head to properly see his expression, revealing a mirrored smile. Thus, a stable friendship had finally been born.

So it’s 1966 and Keith watches the boy win a prize from one of the booths on the pier. It’s a stuffed shark that he clutches underneath his arm as he slings his other unoccupied one over the broad shoulders of his best friend. Keith knows that the large man’s name is Hunk; they were in the same senior class together. They’ve never spoken to each other.

The boy must have sputtered out some type of joke as his friend doubles over in laughter, gripping the railing for support. Pleased, he smiles wickedly, brown hair windswept as he leans back, watching the clouds lazily roll on by.

Keith watches until their eyes accidentally meet, before he blushes and scampers away. He walks down the boardwalk, feet soon meeting the soft sand as he finds a comforting shadowy place underneath the sights and sounds of everyone above. Waves lap at the sand, and shells prick his bare feet. Barnacles construct a ring around the thick wooden posts, and it may smell a little bit like day old fish at the market, but it’s perfect.

A warm hand grips Keith’s shoulder, spinning him around into a long, passionate kiss. His lips are slightly chapped from gnawing at them in worry, but the boy’s tongue runs over the rough patches, soothing the ache. They part and a thin string of saliva continues to connect them before disappearing as their foreheads touch.

“I missed you,” the boy from before says simply, arms wrapping tighter around Keith’s body, drawing him in closer. Burying his head into the crook of his neck, Keith breathes deeply. There has always been a hint of something, drowned out mostly by a bit of spice and the ocean, that Keith has never been able to place. Either way though, it all wraps up into the smell of comfort and peace.

“ _Lance_.”

“Do you want to sneak into the drive-in tonight? They’re re-showing _West Side Story_.”

“That one _is_ your favorite.” A wobbly smile winds its way onto Keith’s face.

“Hey--” Lance’s fingers suddenly find Keith’s chin and lift his head up to gaze directly into his eyes “--is everything alright?”

Those blue eyes are windows to the soul, worry swirling through the oceanic colors. It’s mesmerizing, and Keith has to bite back a set of tears. Instead of speaking, as if knowing his voice will come out garbled and stuttered, he simply nods his head. This is all an obvious lie of course.

Lance’s eyes narrow in confirmation, lips pressed in a straight line. “They still won’t let you see Shiro?”

“No, they won’t,” Keith admits truthfully, always in awe of how Lance can easily read his emotions.

A thin curse escapes from his lips.

Keith fiddles with the collar on Lance’s shirt, rubbing the material between his fingers to distract him from his own mind. “And it’s killing me. All I have is that one letter from him and the military telling me what happened.”

Lance remains silent for too many minutes while Keith mentally berates himself for killing the mood with his unimportant problems. Those long, lanky arms are still wrapped around his waist though, so maybe something can be salvaged. Keith opens his mouth to divert the subject when Lance finally speaks his thoughts aloud.  

“So I’ve had some money saved up for a while, saving it for a special occasion, and--”

“No, Lance, I know what you want to do. But that’s for your family.”

Lance’s gaze is stern and his words leave no room for an argument. “This is the money I left aside for myself, and I want to use it to help you.”

His brain urges him to argue, to be selfless and find another way to reach Shiro without using anyone’s charity, but his heart persuades him to take the offer. Lance gifts this out of free will. It would be ridiculous not to accept it.  

“Let’s go on a road trip,” Lance continues on casually, fingers now twirling a lock of Keith’s hair and brushing it behind his ear.

This pulls Keith away from his thoughts. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“B-but he’s in California,” he flounders, searching for the obvious reason of why Lance does not need to do this. “This is _Florida_.”

Lance hums in agreement, closing his eyes while his lips still hold onto a smile, and does his best to rebuke that statement. “I have my uncle’s beat up truck, about two hundred dollars in cash, a week of vacation from work, and an inkling to go on an adventure.”

“I--I--” _I don’t know what to say,_ is exactly the sentence Keith can’t seem to put into words.  

“Your foster parents won’t mind, right?” Lance questionably arches an eyebrow even though he can already assume the answer.

“They probably won’t even notice that I’m gone.” The house is so full right now anyways--a new little girl having just arrived--and once this summer ends, he’ll be forced into a local college or he’ll find a permanent job. He is eighteen, after all, and graduated high school a month or two ago. He’s just grateful that they haven’t booted him out yet.

Lance’s hand is splayed against his back, half under his shirt. The direct contact sparks along Keith’s spine, traveling to the base of his skull and flooding his mind with too many feelings. “I mean, you don’t have to decide now,” Lance begins to ramble, “I just sprung it on you and everything. It’s kind of a big decision and I underst--”

Shutting him up, Keith crashes his lips into his, tasting the unspoken words on his tongue as Lance buzzes in contentment. When Keith draws back, his nerves are jittery but eyes dance brightly with excitement. “Alright, let’s go.”

* * *

Lance doesn’t quite remember how he met Keith. He has a vague recollection of it being a sudden, whirlwind event.

He hasn’t looked back since.

* * *

Shiro had been born in an internment camp. He doesn’t talk about it much, but Keith had heard bits and pieces about those times when he was younger.

His parents are dead now, and Keith is all he has left--it goes both ways. Even with foster parents, Shiro is the only person who has felt like family--this sentiment excludes Lance who has become a different type of family. At that point in the past though, Shiro had been his one constant, the only one who wouldn’t push Keith away once he was no longer of use. Keith can’t say the same thing about his foster parents, and he would be fooling himself if he believed that the relationship between him and Lance would last for an eternity.

But Shiro has always been there and hopefully always will.

Keith once asked Shiro why he would fight for a country who practically imprisoned his family and his relatives for no reason. “I’m not fighting for the States,” he had responded casually. They were in a park, basking in the rays of the warm sun and swatting away a few gnats that would come over to investigate in the warm Florida heat.

It was perfect like so many other things before it.

Shiro’s dark gray eyes were distant, mouth set in a frown, but he still answered Keith’s curiosity. “I’m fighting to help those who can’t fight for themselves. I don’t want them to be destroyed by a war we ignited.”

That had been a year ago.

And the war had destroyed Shiro first.

Haphazardly throwing his bag into the bed of the truck, Keith raps on the door, startling Lance from whatever brief slumber he had been caught in. They’re fleeing under the cover of darkness, like a couple of thieves.

“You ready for the adventure of a lifetime?” Lance excitedly asks as he pops open the door. It wobbles before slowly falling back towards him; Keith quickly catches it, the rust roughly cutting into his fingers. The passenger side never could stay open on its own.

“I think you’re overselling it a bit, but yeah, I am.”

The dash of freckles across Lance’s nose are predictably darker in the summertime, and the light inside the car only supports this fact. Constellations on his skin, that’s what Keith calls them. It always makes Lance adorably embarrassed. He loves it.  

As the engine sputters before it starts, Lance releases a few quiet curse words in Spanish that Keith is all too familiar with. He lays his head back, the musty scent of the seats washing over him. The headlights send two thick streams onto the dark street as the car pulls away from the curb.

Sneakily, and with a smile, Lance’s hand soon finds Keith’s thigh, a comforting gesture.

“Thanks for doing this with me,” Keith comments quite sleepily.

The honesty in Lance’s voice is too pure, but that’s not a bad thing. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Lance had escaped from Cuba; he told him that much once. Keith never asked how though. He knew none of his immediate family came with him, equally too large to sneak away successfully and equally too unwilling, in a sense, to leave their home country. It’s difficult to leave everything familiar and comforting behind; Keith is simply amazed Lance had the ambition to try.

He knows though, he knows that Lance is desperately trying to get his family to come over--if the stack of letters are anything to go by. Keith has seen Lance circle articles about Cuba in the newspaper with a red pen, a striking contrast to the black and white.

The only wish he has is for the opportunity to help Lance out like how he is helping him. Deep down though, Keith knows there is nothing he can do.

So he simply leans his head against Lance’s shoulder as they drive, hoping the quiet support is enough.

* * *

Their first date had been at midnight, a perfect cloudless sky accompanied by a full moon. Lance had watched as Keith snuck out of his bedroom window, carefully scaling the house until he could drop to the ground with a soft thump.

Lance remembers the way Keith’s hair was a mess of tangled curls, drifting across his flushed cheeks.

It was then when he realized Keith was truly beautiful.

* * *

“This seems like a good place?”

“Extra greasy with a side of stickiness?” Keith jokes, “It’s perfect.”

They walk into the diner with a decent amount of space between them as he trails after Lance from behind. The air is thick with the smell of breakfast, crispy bacon and eggs with a side of slightly burnt toast. The place is hazy as well, the lowlights of the diner barely reach all the shadowed corners. It’s not as empty as they would have liked it either. A patron or two or five are scattered all around, some with their food and some looking at a menu.

Stomach grumbling, Keith quickly searches for a table. There’s one for two in the back near the kitchen doors, not an ideal spot but a spot nonetheless. Immediately, Keith drags Lance over, who yelps in surprise at the sudden tug.  

Of course, Lance orders bacon and eggs when Keith asks for the simpler, but equally delicious, banana pancakes. They steal food from each other’s plates as soon as the meals arrive--it’s something they’ve always done. Lance laughs as usual as they struggle for the last strip of bacon on his plate--Lance always emerges victorious, but it’s not as if Keith lets him win. Under the table, their feet playfully knock into each other, hosting a battle of their own, and Keith wrestles with himself to hold a neutral expression on his face.

“We should probably stop this,” Keith says even though he hooks his foot around Lance’s leg.

“Yeah.”

They don’t stop.

A pair of eyes remain locked on them all throughout breakfast, but being caught up in each others smiles, Keith’s senses are unusually dulled, locked in his own perfect bubble with Lance. The eyes, and the man they belong too, do not catch up to Keith and Lance until they walk outside. Keith’s fingers lazily brush against Lance’s hand hanging by his side, only to jerk back suddenly when he hears a voice.

“I see I found myself a pair of f--”

Lance whirls around faster than Keith thought possible. Fire flickers across his ocean-like eyes, but even those waves can’t quell the fury racing through both of their bodies. “I wouldn’t go there if I were you, mister, we weren’t doing anything.”

The man cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowed and yellowed teeth peeking through his thin lips. “You better tell that to your pretty boy then, his hands have been on you all mornin’. Wish I could find myself a whore like that.”

It doesn’t even take a second for Lance’s fist to smack into the man’s nose. From the strength of the blow, Keith easily hears an audible crack and watches a spurt of blood dribble down from the man’s broken nose as Lance begins to back away. The disgusting stranger pursues him, yelling in outrage with an accompaniment of swears and unmentionable slurs that have Keith’s ears ringing. Perfectly managing to avoid each swing, Lance’s expression is set into one of concentration, brows furrowed and lips pulled into a frown. He blocks the next punch with his forearms.

That one had been too close for Keith’s comfort.

Stupidly, he attempts to intervene, fingers gripping onto Lance’s shirt to push him away as he steps in between them. The unruly man unfortunately seizes the opportunity to punch Keith in the face, a ring cutting into the delicate skin of his cheek. He reels back with wide eyes; fingers lightly prod the wound and come away with a bit of blood staining the pads of his fingers.

“That’s it, fucker,” Lance seethes, “Now you’re really going to get it.”

Warm blood collects on his cheek as he latches onto Lance’s shoulder. “Lance, no, he’s not worth it. Let’s _go_.”

Reluctantly, Lance follows. Even from their distance apart, Keith can feel the tension in his muscles, hands locked into tight fists by his sides and eyes a glowing blue--icy and cold. A shiver races up his spine.

The man’s last remark prickles Keith’s skin as well, causing his nails to dig into the palms of his hands to create red crescent moons. “Your plaything looks like a girl with those long locks. Fooling yourself isn’t going to work--”

“Why don’t you just shut the fuck up, asshole, and go back to your breakfast,” Lance spits before they turn the corner and the man finally disappears from sight. Keith waits a three count for the man to come chasing after them before he allows his body to release the last bits of tension. The pounding of feet on the parking lot never come but Keith’s body remains locked for a long time afterwards.

When they reach the truck, Lance rummages through the glove compartment, searching for a band-aid. The wound on Keith’s face has already stopped bleeding, but he doesn’t want to tell Lance to stop fussing.

“He was a horrible, horrible man,” Lance mutters, triumphantly holding a small band-aid with a sour expression. “He had no right to say those things about you.”

“It’s alright, Lance, I’m alright. We just got to be more careful next time.”

Blue eyes invade his vision as Lance tugs Keith closer to him. His fingers gently hover over the cut. “He hurt you though; it just made me so angry.”

Keith grips Lance’s hands in his, rubbing soothing circles across his knuckles before flipping them over to do the same on the soft flesh of his palms. He traces every line until he feels Lance’s heartbeat resume to a normal pace and his body relax. “It’s going to be alright now. We won’t ever see him again,” Keith calmly reminds the both of them.

“It probably won’t scar,” Lance says at last, delicately pressing the band-aid onto his skin.

“I don’t care if it does.”

“Either way you’ll look pretty badass,” Lance smirks until the light dims from his eyes and he can’t quite hold Keith’s gaze anymore. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Keith asks, confused.

For once, Lance blushes, bashful from what he plans to say. “For being there… for me. For just being you. For just existing. _Thank you_.”

“Then I’d like to thank you too, for being in my life.”

They share a sad, weighted smile.

* * *

Though they never made their relationship public--even to their closest friends--for obvious reasons, they also never flaunted their friendship in fear of being too careless and tripping up.

Lance never asked to hang at Keith’s house and Keith never asked the same of him. Instead they would meet under the dock, the ocean banging against the sand and seagulls crying overhead. A hermit crab often scuttled near their feet if they were quiet enough.

It had been perfect that way.

* * *

They stop at a cruddy gas station five miles away from the nearest major highway. A few pieces of trash litter the ground--crumpled napkins and a broken beer bottle or two--and the pumps are surrounded by bristly dead grass. Keith spots a lone worker smoking behind the counter of the little shop, but besides that, the place is barren of all walks of life.    

Gravel crunches underneath his beat-up shoes, dust billowing around them. Lifting his sunglasses, Lance squints at the price; thirty-two cents per gallon isn’t terrible. Still, Keith knows they’ll be eating through that pocket money pretty quickly. Would there even be enough for a return trip? Hopefully, but that thought never did cross their minds when they started.

_Would there even be a return trip?_

Keith pushes that thought far from his mind.   

As Lance stretches from the long drive, the hem of his shirt automatically lifts, revealing a small strip of brown skin and a hint at that sharp v for Keith’s viewing pleasure. He bites back a whistle, face twisting to hold in any sort of emotion that will cause him to reach out and kiss this man.

“You okay, dude?” Lance asks after a few moments.

Keith blinks. “Yeah. Just enjoying the view.”

“Hmm.” Lance smirks.

“What?”

He places a hand on his hip, cocking it. “Nothin’. I’m just wondering when you got so good at flirting.”

Gasping in mock outrage, Keith glares, hand over his heart as if he had been physically, and not just verbally, wounded. “I’ve _always_ been good at flirting.”

“If that makes you feel better…” Lance sings, returning his eyes to the pump.

“You’re lucky you’re holding the car keys, because I will gladly leave you behind.” He’s quite pleased with how fast Lance whips his head around in astonishment.

“Aw, Keith, you don’t mean that.” Lance’s lips compress into a thin smirk. “You wouldn’t do that to someone you love,” he whispers, “and I know you _love_ me.”

“And I have absolutely no idea why that might be,” Keith teases, “I must be crazy.”

“ _Keith_ ~”

Hidden to the outside world because of the gas pump, he presses a finger against Lance’s lips, staring into his eyes with a serious expression. “You no longer have control over the radio,” he utters casually, lips curling deviously.

“Not fair!”

He walks away before Lance can argue any further.

When Keith returns, goods squashed against his chest as he struggles to carry them all, he spots Lance laying on the hood and back against the windshield, hands under his head and face arched towards the sun. His feet hang off the truck, swinging back and forth and hitting the front gate once or twice on every other swing. This is Lance in his element, with his perfect hair curling slightly at the ends and body completely at ease.

Keith can’t help but smile.  

He desperately wants to lean in and kiss that stupid grin off his face, but suddenly, as he begins to walk closer, he remembers the employee somewhere in the store. They don’t need to make a scene again. Quietly sighing, Keith frowns, disappointed.

“What is it?” Lance asks, now jumping down from the hood, arms out in a gesture to help carry some of the junk. He grabs a few cokes and allows Keith to fumble with the rest.

“Nothing,” Keith mutters, climbing into the truck.

He kisses Lance once they’re out of sight, much to the other’s confusion and delight.

* * *

Lance can’t pinpoint the exact moment he fell in love with Keith. Instead, it had been an accumulative amount of memories and a quiet second in his bedroom when he had jerked awake from sleep, the idea on his lips.

Nothing changed when they whispered those words to each other. Lance’s heart may have fluttered and his cheeks were colored red. But nothing changed.

They knew they loved each other, and things went on as normal.

* * *

In the hot summer night, a thick sheen of sweat peppers their brows. Keith’s cotton shirt sticks to his skin. There’s no summer breeze to relieve the two from this torture. The air is dead, heavy with humidity, but the sunset is beautiful.

Just not as beautiful as Lance’s eyes.

A soft melody plays from the car’s radio; it’s muffled, though, in the static of Keith’s mind. He reaches up to trail his fingers across Lance’s cheek, smiling softly as he leans into his palm. In this moment he kisses him.

On a hot summer night in 1966, Keith kisses the boy he has fallen in love with. A soft, lingering touch remains forever even as they separate.

Darkness quickly covers them as the sun dips below the horizon, and soon their faces are shadowed from each other. It’s hard to see in the darkness at first; Keith has to blink repeatedly for his vision to adjust. Lance leans forward again, lips crashing heatedly into his, hands grabbing desperately onto his shirt, fingers soon discovering bare patches of skin to explore. Weaving his own hands into Lance’s short hair, he drags the boy even closer, almost tripping the both of them in the hurried movement.

They do a little more than sleep in the truck that night.

* * *

The first time Lance had seen Keith naked was in a motel room they had rented for after prom. Tuxedos were crumpled on the ground beside the bed, and a sock may have been hanging on the lampshade, parting the single stream of light into two. Lance didn’t care though.

Keith’s gaze was pure fire and his lips already swollen as he tugged Lance closer, a dopey smile on his face.

Their first time had been messy of course and a tad awkward during certain parts, but Lance wouldn’t trade those memories for the world.  

* * *

They’re probably in Arizona by now, but Keith has lost track of how many state borders they’ve crossed. It’s almost dusk again, the road empty, and the only sound pings against the side of the truck as they fly down the dusty road. Soft jazz seeps in from the speakers, and the wind whips through Keith’s hair, creating a tangled mess.

“You think we should stop somewhere?” Lance quietly asks, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“Yeah, that would probably be a good idea,” he mumbles sleepily. He doesn’t miss how Lance reaches over to brush away a lock of hair that has fallen onto his face. Smiling as a response, Keith turns to place a delicate kiss on Lance’s palm.

He hums in contentment.

 

The desk is vacant, and the little bell is broken; overall, it’s not an auspicious beginning. It’s musty, a film of dust lining some of the shelves holding too many glass dolls and a taxidermy animal or two with those beady glass eyes. Involuntarily, Keith shivers, and Lance lightly places his hand on the small of his back, below the counter and out of view.  

“Do you think we’re in _The Twilight Zone_?” Lance stage whispers.

“Shit, I hope not.”

It’s his favorite television show, but it’s not something he would ever want to be a part of. He almost whips his head around to look for a man narrating their death when he hears a quiet clinking.

A bowl of peppermints has sat undisturbed until Lance found it, and Keith almost wacks away his hand--who knows if those candies are poisonous--but an employee finally emerges before he can.

The worker is an old woman of course, one that easily fits in with the theme of the flowery wallpaper, as if things needed to become more cliche. She hunches as she walks but needs no support to move around. Her eyes are milky with cataracts, and a pair of spectacles hang by a thick, beaded chain around her neck. Cat hair sticks to the sleeves of her sweater.

Keith has to roll his eyes at the absurdness of it all.  

Narrowing her eyes, the old woman clicks her tongue in impatience.

Lance plasters on his fakest, friendliest smile, eyes twinkling. “One room, two beds, please.” They don’t have enough money for much else.

“The only one we have available is a single. I hope you boys won’t mind,” she gargles in a scratchy voice, mostly caused by old age.

No, they really don’t mind at all.

“That’s okay,” Lance responds, still chipper--even more so this time, now having a viable reason to be sharing a bed in public. It’s a small victory in a world of defeats.

The old woman doesn’t spare them a second glance, thrusting their key forward after they hand over the cash, and returns to the room behind the counter without a word.

The state of the room is not unexpected for a motel, wooden paneling and faded comforters. The carpet is thick and contains a slight stench, and the bed, which still manages to take up a majority of the room, is barely big enough for one person. At this point, Keith just hopes the bathroom is functioning, the grime from days of not showering starting to set in.

“I was going to ask if you wanted to try it out first,” Lance says, gesturing to the bathroom with his thumb while throwing his bag on the bed only to frown when it doesn’t bounce. “But I think it would be more efficient to share.”

That wink almost sends Keith over the edge.

His fingers dance at the hem of his shirt, preparing to rip it off. “I like the way you think."

 

An old, dusty radio is tucked away in a cabinet on one of the nightstands. Fiddling with the dial, the static begins to clear away to reveal an old song from the fifties. It starts off slow, the words muffled from the terrible reception, but the rhythm is still present, clear as it had been when it was performed.

“Don’t know this one,” Lance absentmindedly mumbles, leg bouncing and finger tapping to the music.

Keith stands from the bed, walking confidently over to bow in front of him. His hair is still damp from the shower, but the coolness is refreshing as locks cling to his neck and cheeks. “May I have this dance, kind sir?”

Blue eyes sparkle, lips quirking. “I’d thought you’d never ask.”

The room spins as they spin, feet dragging against the rough carpet. Keith’s fingers grip onto Lance’s shoulder and his other hand slides perfectly into his. Laughter resonates through the air when Keith accidentally steps on Lance’s toes, momentarily missing the beat. Lance dips his head down, placing a small kiss of forgiveness on his lips. It tastes like peppermint.

“You weren’t this bad at prom,” Lance continues to laugh, sweeping Keith around the room.

“Yeah, ‘cause I was dancing with Pidge, and she’d kill me if I stepped on her toes. I was watching my feet the whole time.”

“She _does_ scare me.” Lance nods in agreement, grimacing.

Keith chuckles at his discomfort, remembering the time when Lance accidentally thought Pidge was a boy when they were first introduced and got jealous because of it. It had been one of those rare instances when Lance’s true emotions slipped past his fabricated mask of nonchalance; Pidge simply found it amusing. “I’d think she’d be pleased to hear that.”

Lance twirls him--a difficult feat on carpet--as the song reaches the climax, the lyrical voices clearer now. “I wish I could have danced with you back then,” he casually admits as he draws Keith back into his embrace.

Keith’s smile is sad, eyes filled with many wishes he can never have granted. “Well you’re dancing with me now.”

“I am.”

Tightening his grip on Lance’s hand, Keith tugs him closer, lips brushing across his neck in small kisses. The light marks he leaves behind will fade by the morning and no one will know that Lance is his.  

“Sing for me,” Keith suggests quietly once a new song fades into instrumentals.

Born with a terribly off-key voice, Keith loves to hear Lance’s own, which is smooth and beautiful whenever he sings a few Spanish songs once in a while. The words Lance sings Keith can’t understand. Having no knowledge of what they connote--of love or family or of something different--he simply listens, burying his face into Lance’s neck and feeling the vibrations through his skin.

If this is what being with Lance will always feel like, Keith never wants to leave his embrace, comforted by the warmth spreading into his bones and soul.

Eventually, they separate to prepare for bed.

* * *

Lance remembers the day he told Keith about his family and escaping from Cuba. He had listened intently, frown marring his pretty features. Those gray-violet eyes never left his face as they tracked every word that made its way out of Lance’s mouth.

Of course, he choked up during some parts--recalling his older sister’s smile and his older brother’s laugh and his mother’s kind words often accompanied with her cooking and his father’s sturdy voice as he helped Lance with his schoolwork. He missed it--misses it--all.

Yet, somehow, looking into those wide eyes, he found some semblance of peace.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.   

* * *

Keith hopes this trip never ends, but when he sees the California sign, everything crashes down upon him. His shaky hands have returned as well as a shortness of breath. What will he see when he gets there? Keith knows Shiro lost most of his right arm, but no one had been detailed about the extent of his injuries. Who will Shiro be when he gets there?

Certainly not the same person who walked away with a farewell smile and ruffled Keith’s hair.

“Keith, Keith, baby, listen to me. Alright? You gotta listen to me. _Escuchame_ , Keith. Please.” Warm hands card through his long hair, nails digging at his scalp soothingly. “You have to breath. In and out. It’s going to be alright.”

_In and out._

_Who will he be?_

_In and out._

_What will happen when they finally arrive?_

_In and out._

At some point Lance must have pulled over, the car a resting hum and the radio silent. He sits more on the passenger side than where he should be. Keith’s eyes are tightly squeezed shut, head throbbing with too much pain and clouded with too much fog.

“I know this is difficult for you,” Lance continues, his words calmly rolling off his tongue. “War changes a person, but at least he survived. _At least he survived._ We’re alike, Keith, we both have lost a part of our family. I can’t see mine anymore, but at least you have the chance to see yours.”

“I know, I know.”     

“You gotta be brave, baby. This is as much for you as it is for him.” A single tear slips away from Keith’s eyelashes, streaking down his cheek in one quick stroke. Lance catches it before it has the chance to fall from his chin. “You have to be brave.”

“I will be.”

* * *

It’s hard sometimes to forget about the first time Lance saw Keith cry. They were lying in the back of the pick-up truck, the chipped red paint and patches of rust already showing its age, and Lance had a beer bottle in his hand.

They weren’t exactly drunk, but Keith had been loose enough to break through some of his emotional barriers.

Lance watched silver tears stream down Keith’s cheeks under the brilliant night sky. The moon had been full that night, illuminating the both of them. For the first time, he learned what it was like to grow up without a true family.

He would never forgot.

* * *

“Who are you?” the soldier asks at the front desk. With his dark hair buzzed short and green eyes sharp, he appears thoroughly unamused, sneering at the two of them as Keith drums his chipped fingernails against the counter.

“I’m looking for Takashi Shirogane. I’m Keith--I’m his brother,” Keith replies with stern confidence. “We’d like to pay him a visit.”

“Uh huh, and who’s he?” The soldier’s eyes gesture to Lance awkwardly standing behind him, hands stuffed in his jeans.

“My other brother?”

“Yeah, nice try, kid. Unless you’re trying to enlist, beat it before I call the cops.”

“Let them in, Sargent Trevor.” The woman who speaks up from behind the soldier is a nurse, her dark skin beautifully contrasting with the white of her uniform. Her words are heavy with an English accent, and her brilliant blue eyes easily land on Keith, recognition crinkling her brow. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Keith.”

Her silvery-white hair--not from old age but most likely from bleach--shimmers in the sun, which catches wisps of hair escaping from the bun tucked under the white cap. He has never met this woman before, and Lance quickly shakes his head, confused as well.

“Uh…”

“This is not proper protocol. This boy does not have permission, nor, do I suspect, is he an actual blood relative,” Trevor quickly intervenes, dark eyes now pressed on the nurse and away from him and Lance.  

She bites her bottom lip, as if preventing herself from saying exactly what she thinks of protocol out loud. Trevor, as well, looks as if he is on the verge of saying something distasteful but decides against it. This woman must be very brave to work in a place like this.

“Look, I didn’t want to cause any trouble,” Keith pipes up, startling both of them, “But me and my friend just drove a God awful amount of miles to see Shiro, and I _will_ see him. With your permission or not.” His gray-violet eyes spark, a wolf’s gaze, and his hands curl into fists on the counter. Behind him, Lance smirks, ready to help if needed.

The soldier actually gulps--something that greatly pleases Keith--and flickers his gaze around the empty waiting room. “I--I guess I could let you in. But only this once.”

Keith wildly smiles. “That’s wonderful, thanks.”

“I can show you to him,” the nurse says, gesturing for them to follow her through the double doors.

“Who are you?” Keith questions carefully, repeating the exact words the soldier had asked him.  

“I’m Allura, Takashi’s nurse,” she answers, already having expected the question. A smile stays on her lips. “When I’m on the night shift, we usually pass the time by telling stories. It helps him sleep. You’re the main star of most of them; he’s very fond of you.”     

They stop in front of a room full of six cots, three lining each wall. Though this is only a small room, there are probably plenty more like it in the large building. He spots a man with an amputated leg first, partially hidden under the covers; there’s another with bandages around his eyes, a frown marring his face more than that fresh, jagged scar across his cheek ever could. _This must be a recovery room_ , Keith thinks, there’s not much medical equipment to be found at all.

These are supposed to be the lucky ones, right?

They don’t seem lucky at all.

Allura quickly guides their wandering attention back to her. “And there he is.”

Shiro turns toward them upon hearing the commotion. The first thing Keith’s eyes catch is a puckering scar across the bridge of his nose. Then onto the place where his arm ends--right above the elbow--and the empty space where the rest of his limb should be. Besides the obvious wounds, Shiro looks normal. Surprisingly so. His hair has become shaggier and his bangs now hold a strip of white in them--Shiro’s eyes might be darker, not in color but with experience, as well; he pretends that to be caused by a trick of the light--but Keith can still match him to the man he had last seen a year ago.

Swallowing a lump that has begun to form, Keith gingerly walks over until he’s by the side of the cot. Lance’s presence is only a few paces behind him.  

“H-hey,” Keith manages to say as tears slide down his face.

Without warning, Shiro drags him into a tight hug, his left arm warping around his torso until they’re close enough to feel each other’s heart beat. Keith rests his chin on Shiro’s shoulder, tears dropping onto the cotton material of his hospital gown. Dark spots line the collar and more are added in quick succession.  

“I didn’t think you’d ever be able to come,” Shiro whispers, voice trembling, “But here you are.”

“It’s all thanks to Lance,” comes Keith’s muffled reply. “I wouldn’t have been able to see you without him.”

Shiro lifts his head, addressing Lance. “Thank you for bringing him to me, and whatever you spent on this trip, let me repay you. I’m sorry to have put you through this trouble.”

Lance, startled, straightens his posture, mouth open in surprise, floundering for the correct words. “It was nothing, really. I lo--he’s my f-friend so of course I would do this for him. You don’t have to give me anything.”

“No, I’m going to repay you, and you’re not going to refuse it.” Shiro arches an eyebrow, daring him to try. Keith chuckles into Shiro’s gown, finally picking his head up and turning to gaze at Lance.

“Just take it, okay?”

He sheepishly cards a hand through his hair. “Alright,” Lance finally concedes.

“Now, you two have to catch me up on everything that’s been happening in your lives. It gets boring here in the hospital.” Keith and Shiro break away from their hug, and Keith scoots closer to Shiro, patting the now free space beside him for Lance to join them.

Everything Keith wants to tell Shiro--about Lance and finding love and everything that comes with it--he can’t, and thoughts dry up in his head as he flounders for a memory that doesn’t involve soft kisses and equally soft voices in the night. Settling for normal school and home life, he feels Lance sit beside him on the cot. He prays his hand doesn’t automatically search for Lance’s in hopes of comfort; just in case, he clenches them in his lap, skin taut and trembling slightly.   

If Shiro notices the odd reaction he doesn’t comment, his smile continuing to stretch wide across his face and crinkling at the edges. Keith wonders how often he has grinned like that since he left, probably not very often or at all.

“Hmm, let’s see,” Lance begins, tapping a finger against his chin and eyebrows furrowing in fake concentration. Keith can’t help but allow a small smile loose on his face. “How about the time Keith face-planted in the sand when we were racing on the beach? That’s always a great one to start with!”

That memory ended with them heavily making out once the sun went down. They’ll leave that part out.

Shiro chuckles at the story, the traitor. Keith’s failed attempts should not be considered comedy, but in the end he’s laughing along too as Lance dramatizes the story until the point where it isn’t even believable anymore.

“And then we finally got away from the angry old ladies to find the perfect dark alley to ma--” Lance coughs, breaking the spell the story had caused. Too close. “Uh, then we found a perfect alley to take a shortcut home.”

“I’m glad you still had a great summer without worrying about me,” Shiro muses, ruffling Keith’s long hair.

“Shiro, I still worried about you.”

“Yeah, but you had a _friend_ to help distract you too.”

Lance stiffens beside him, eyes angled off to the side, flickering over the sleeping patients. Luckily, Allura had quietly departed a while ago.

“I’ve known Keith for a long time now,” Shiro continues as an explanation, voice lowered. “I know what he looks like when he’s found somebody to love. It’s a rare occurrence.”

“Are--”

“And I couldn’t be happier,” Shiro immediately adds. “Once again I have to thank you, Lance.”

This time Lance’s face splits into a wide grin as he shakes his head. “You really don’t have to.”

“I _want_ to; it’s good to know someone else is taking care of him.”

Satisfied with the lack of conscious strangers in the room, Lance snakes his arm around Keith’s waist, pulling him closer and resting his chin on his shoulder. Lance’s words are warm as they brush past Keith’s ear. “He takes care of me too.”

Shiro’s gray eyes sparkle, though they’re permanently cracked around the edges. “I don’t doubt that.”

Keith’s smile is fake, heart clenching as he grasps Lance’s hand over his chest as they recall more adventures. Watching this scene unfold before him, he realizes his mind has finally made a decision he has been toying with since the beginning--only, it is more painful now that he’ll have to act on it.

_I want to leave with Lance, but I have to stay for Shiro._

* * *

The end, like the beginning, happens in a whirl of emotions Lance can’t quite comprehend. It goes like this:

Keith’s confession is painful, eyes wide and lips trembling. His words are without stutter though, unlike his heart. “Shiro needs someone familiar here with him; you’ve seen his eyes, they’re so broken. Lance, I think I need to stay.”

 _Please, no._ Instead, Lance says “O-okay.”

“We’ll return to Florida someday,” Keith promises, fingers interlocking with Lance’s as they hide in a vacant bathroom meant for one person.

Keith’s eyes are dark under the fluorescent lighting. One of the bulbs flickers ominously--it has a repeating pattern. One, two; one, two, three; one, two. Lance keeps count. The faucet drips too, the consistent rhythm scratching at his ears.  

“Of course,” he says, disbelief disguised with a soft kiss as he delicately presses his lips onto Keith’s. “Of course you will.”

"Or," Keith begins hesitantly, "You could stay... with us here?"

Lance's heart continues to shatter. "You know I have go back to Florida." 

He mutely nods, lips trembling. “You know I still love you, right? That I will always love you?” Keith asks quietly as his fingers caress Lance’s cheek, connecting a few of his freckles with invisible lines. Those words still remain true at least. They will _always_ remain true, no matter what.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry,” Keith whispers, voice a silent breeze in the night.

Lance’s last words barely leave his lips. “I know.”

.

.

.

.

_And wouldn't it be nice to live together_

_In the kind of world where we belong_

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments and kudos:)


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